


Sed Non Obligant

by JustGettingBy



Series: Per aspera, ad astra [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Backstory, Bigotry & Prejudice, Bisexuality, Character Study, Fix-It of Sorts, Gentle Sex, Growing Up, Idiots in Love, Introspection, M/M, Missing Scenes, Mutual Pining, Outdoor Sex, Rough Sex, Scent Kink, Sharing Clothes, Time Skips, learning, the apology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-03-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:56:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22245220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustGettingBy/pseuds/JustGettingBy
Summary: In a small village in the hills of Kaedwan, Geralt is born.In Kaer Morhen, Geralt trains.In Posada, Geralt meets Jaskier. His life is never quite the same after that.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Per aspera, ad astra [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1601233
Comments: 99
Kudos: 2340
Collections: Good Relationship Etiquette (familial included) - or Good BDSM Etiquette - or Good Relationship and BDSM Etiquette





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> You don't have to read the other work in the series for this one to make sense. This one focuses on Geralt's backstory and interactions with Jaskier, and the other focuses on Jaskier's backstory and interactions with Geralt. That being said, I've written them as companion pieces and there are some parallels in the fics. 
> 
> Also, this is based fully on the TV show and like one Wikipedia article. It's all my own creation so there's no spoilers for anything in the books or games (which I haven't read or played).

In a small village in the hills of Kaedwan, Geralt is born on a Wednesday. 

***

In a small village in the hills of Kaedwan, Geralt is a child. 

It’s a lonely childhood, but he doesn’t mind. It’s all he knows. He knows his only friends are the great oak tree behind his house and the owl that lives in her branches and the frogs by the pond and his figurines. He knows the older boys down the road call him spiteful names—even if he doesn’t know what their words mean, he feels the hate they spit deep in his heart. 

Geralt knows his mother. He knows her careful movement as she strips cloth for bandages. He knows how she screws her left eyebrow up when she’s working on a particularly difficult potion. Mostly, he knows her voice—he knows how she _sings._ Soft and sweet and almost as if she’s caught in her own world. She hums while she works and whistles while they travel and taps melodies into the wooden board while she cooks. Each night, Geralt asks for a lullaby. 

“Mum,” he lies, “I can’t sleep.” In truth, Geralt forces himself to push past the tiredness in his eyes. 

She stands from her place by the fire and moves to his bedside. Slowly, she runs her hand over his forehead. “Lullay, lullay, my little tiny child, by-by, lullay, lullay,” she sings, her voice high. “Lullay, lullay, my little tiny child, by-by, lullay, lullay.” 

Her voice stirs an ache in Geralt’s chest that he cannot describe with words. He thinks her voice is the sound the stars make when the sun starts to rise. 

His mother was the one who told him the stars song. They were riding home from a market one night when the evening stars rose. His mother pointed at the sky and told him the spheres had songs to sing. A heavenly melody they played when they spun around each other. 

That night, after his mother fell asleep, Geralt snuck out the backdoor and waded through the tall grasses until he reached the clearing behind their house and cocked his ear skyward. He was certain he heard the music of the spheres, clear and haunting and brilliant. 

“Oh, sisters too, how may we do, for to preserve this day?” Now, his mother pulls the blanket up to Geralt’s chin. “This poor youngling, of whom we do sing, by-by, lullay, lullay.” She presses a kiss on his forehead and stands to leave. 

“Once more, please Mum?” Geralt snuggles into his nest of blankets. 

She shakes her head. Her face is thin and bright, uncreased by the lines Geralt’s seen on the faces of some of the other women around the village. “Not tonight,” she says. “I’m tired.”

Geralt humphs. “You’re always tired.”

She walks away just the same. 

***

In a small village in the hills of Kaedwan, Geralt plays. He sees the other children in the village running together, he sees them trailing at the feet of the others, he sees them knight each other and slay dragons. He tried to join them more than once, but each time he wandered into their group a mother would dip out of a house somewhere and usher the other children away. Now, the other children in the village turn their backs to him, no mother needed. 

Geralt has his figurines instead. They’re rough—carved from cheap wood and painted with cheap dye—but he loves them just the same. They’ve been with him on every adventure he’s ever taken. His knight and his green dragon. 

What would it be like to be a knight? They must have daring adventures all the time. They must see the entire continent in their travels. They are daring and brave and noble. Geralt can think of nothing he’d like more than to be dubbed ‘sir’ and have his own armour and mighty stead. 

His mother cuts carrots for stew while Geralt plays. The dragon terrorizes the kingdom. Geralt swings the knight around—the brave man stares the beast in the eye. “Die you bastard!” the knight calls out before he swings his sword. 

“ _Geralt.”_ His mother slams down her carrot and knife. She strides over and scoops him up, under his armpits, and sets him on a stool in the far corner of the room. His toys lay abandoned on the floor. “We do not use that word,” she scolds. 

In the back of Geralt’s throat, a sob bubbles. Why can’t he use that word? The other kids in the village hurl it his way all the time. So much of the world is a mystery, Geralt wonders if he'll ever understand it. 

***

In a small village in the hills of Kaedwan, Geralt sees his mother do magic. It’s the most brilliant thing in the world. Sometimes, it’s complicated and her features will work into a line of concentration. Other times, she does tricks. Simple spells that blind Geralt in joyful dizziness. Maybe she’ll lift an apple his way, or spin their clothes dry after the washing, or turn the embers from the fire into the shape of a dragon. 

Whatever she does, Geralt loves it. There’s nothing in the world more beautiful than magic. 

***

In a small village in the hills of Kaedwan, Geralt watches his mother heal. Strangers come (or, more often, are brought) to his mother from across the continent. His mother tells him to leave her be—she needs to concentrate on her practice. The wounds are not for the eyes of children. Still, Geralt presses his eye to the keyhole and watches her work. It’s mesmerizing, he thinks, almost hypnotizing to watch his mother heal. She’ll wash wounds and stitch them up. She’ll apply poultices and salves and ointments that leave a lingering scent of sickness in the house. Sometimes, a whiff of sour-smelling leaves catches and burns in Geralt’s throat. They make his eyes water. 

After his mother works, she’ll leave the people. She’ll scoop the bloodied sheets up in her arms and Geralt will rush away from the door and pretend he’s been on the other side of his room, pretend that he’s been playing all along. While his mother goes to do the washing, he sneaks back into the infirmary. If his mother’s patient is awake, he talks to them. 

Geralt meets a woman from Ebbing with a shattered leg. Her smile is crooked and her teeth are straight and she has a deep laugh that comes from her belly. She tells him to stay away from wild mares.

Geralt meets a young man from Caravista after his mother stitches up a hole in his gut. He’s pale as a ghost with hair so blond it’s nearly translucent. He wears a dark sort of expression and won’t answer more than three words at a time. “Don’t jilt your lovers,” he grunts Geralt, in way of advice. 

Geralt sees a gruff-looking sort of man prone on the cot. He doesn’t talk to him—the man is out cold. When he came in, an arrowhead was buried deep in his back. Geralt sees the man’s grimy beard, his slick hair, his dirt-filled fingernails. Mostly, Geralt sees the tattoo pressed against the inside of the man’s arm. Geralt’s pulse quickens. He feels terror slide into his gut and he sprints out of the infirmary and finds his mother washing her the bloodied fabrics. 

“Mum,” he whispers urgently as he tugs on her skirt. “That man—he’s a bandit.”

She sets down her washing and sighs. “I know he is, Geralt.”

“Well, what are you waiting for? Kick him out!”

“He is _hurt_. I’m a healer, Geralt, not a judge. It doesn’t matter if he is a king or a crook—I’ll treat him just the same.” She picks up her cloth and scrubs at the bloodstain. 

Geralt stands and watches her, not entirely sure what to do. If he is to be a knight, he can’t live by that code. Bad is bad and good is good. It’s as simple as that. Isn’t it?

Sometimes, he really doesn’t understand adults. 

He puts it out of his head the next day when he meets Rania, an elf who travelled the entire continent and wounded her arm while foraging for food yesterday. The cut isn’t bad—not compared to the other injuries Geralt has stolen glances of—but it needed to be bandaged all the same. 

She tells Geralt of the wonderful places she’s been. She speaks of _everywhere_ : ragged mountains with air so cold it’ll make you feel as if you’ve been punched in throat; vast, sweeping oceans where the wind tossels the waves and the air smells of salt; deep and lush forests where the trees twist into cathedrals as they arc to the sky. 

“It sounds brilliant,” Geralt says.

Rania smiles. “It is,” she says. “I truly hope you get to see it for yourself one day.”

***

In a small village in the hills of Kaedwan, Geralt plays knight. He upturns and old pail and places it on his head. It’s not much for armour, but it’ll do. He hunts through the branches outside his house and finds a stick—his fine broadsword. He swings it with ease and slays the dragon, yet again. 

“I’ll make you a necklace from the finest dragon teeth,” he tells his mother. 

His mother purses her lips. “No, my dear,” she says. “We must live and let live.”

Geralt turns those words over in his head. Live and let live. He likes the way that sounds.

***

In a small village in the hills of Kaedwan, Geralt goes to the pond. It’s the best place in the world. He searches for frogs in the reeds—in the past, he’s often found them here—but he can never bring them home. He presses his belly into the ground and crawls forward in until he can see under the deadwood of the old log. Sure enough, he spots one again today, hiding in the moss. He stares at the odd creatures with its colourful eyes for a while before he crawls back out from under the crook of the log. 

The world, in summer, feels endless. The sky is wide and blue and bright and doesn’t dip behind the horizon until late in the evening. Geralt stretches out in the grass next to his pond and laces his fingers behind his head. He _will_ travel the continent one day, he’s decided that much, but he doesn’t believe there’s anywhere out there that can be better than his pond. For now, he’s content to search for shapes in the passing clouds. 

It’s a wonderful afternoon until Geralt hears a muffled cry. 

He sits up, slow and unsure. The cry sounds again—it’s coming from under an Aspen tree. Geralt walks over, slow and unsure. He pushes back a handful of weeds, slow and unsure. 

Nestled in the ground is a baby finch. Its wing is broken and its feathers are bent back at an unnatural angle. It tries to sing again, but its song comes out strangled and melancholy.

Geralt doesn’t think—he scoops the bird in his hands and runs up the path, away from his pond, and toward his house. 

“Mum,” he cries as he pushes in the door. “Mum! Look.” He holds out the finch. 

She stands, a grave look on her face. She stares down her nose at the poor bird. 

For a second, Geralt fears she’ll scold him again. He knows he’s not supposed to bring animals back to the house—his mother made that very clear after the last incident with the frog. And again, after the time with the beetles. 

Instead, she runs her finger over its delicate head. “Let’s see what we can do,” she says. 

Together, they wind the thinnest strip of bandage over the damaged part of its wing. Geralt goes outside and gathers grass and twigs in a basket to make a home for the finch. His mother tears off a sliver of bread and places it in the basket too. 

“Isn’t there anything more we can do?” Geralt asks as he peers at the bird. He watches it move in the smallest of ways—the half-flutter of its wings, the movement of its little belly as it breathes.

His mother shakes her head. “The best thing we can do is wait,” she says. She takes his hand and squeezes. “Healing, Geralt, is one of the most difficult things in the world. It takes skill and precision and patience. Most difficult of all, it takes acceptance. There are some things you cannot make better. Sometimes, you must learn to let others go. When the time is right, you have to let go and let destiny take its path.” 

“Mum, our finch will be alright,” he insists. Destiny or not. 

She pulls him into a hug. “We can hope, Geralt. We can hope.”

For the rest of the week, Geralt watches the finch. He checks it first thing in the morning and at night he sits by the basket until his eyes sting with tired dryness. In the day, he brings the basket out into the sunlight and adds new twigs and leaves to the nest. He scourges for berries and seeds and leaves them for his little bird. 

He watches his mother watch the finch. Her mouth quirks downward. She straightens her features into an expressionless mask when he tells her about the bird. Is she sad? Is she sorry? He doesn’t know. But he does know she thinks his finch won’t make it. Something in Geralt’s heart stirs. He knows his finch is gentle and soft, but that doesn’t make him any less of a survivor. 

At the end of the week, his mother insists they take his finch into the clearing behind their house and take the bandage off. “If it isn’t healed by now,” she says, “then it never will be.” Her voice isn’t harsh, but it is blunt. Healing, for his mother, is always straightforward. Healing is facts and care and realism all the same. She’s careful when she unwinds the bandage from around his finch’s wing, but Geraly can tell she isn’t hopeful. 

His heart flutters. Does it have wings too? 

His finch hops around in his basket. He ruffles his bandage-free feathers, pecks at a berry, and jumps to the edge of the basket. Geralt thinks the wing looks better—it’s no longer bent at an awkward angle—but he doesn’t know the mechanics of flight. 

Geralt swallows a lump in his throat. Something clenches the pit of his gut. He never realized he could be so afraid for someone else before. All he wants is the best for his finch, but he doesn’t know how to give it to him. 

His finch preens. His little golden head bobs beside his wing, he shakes himself out again, and he _lifts._

Geralt’s heart sores with him. “Yes!” He punches his fist up in the air.

His finch roams the sky, he circles the sun and drifts along the currents. He disappears in the dense green canopy. Will his finch see the continent too? He hopes he does. Maybe they'll meet again someday. 

***

In a small village in the hills of Kaedwan, the winter is bitter, deep and cold. Geralt wraps himself in layers of blankets, but it's not enough to stave off the permanent chill. “Mum,” he whines.

“I know,” she snaps. 

His stomach rumbles as he sinks into the corner. The frost came early this year. Destroyed the harvest. 

The winter never seems to end. Each day brings only more snow and ice. Their stock of supplies dwindle. The darkness falls soon and stays longer. 

Geralt aches to feel warm and full and sunny again. 

***

In a small village in the hills of Kaedwan, the spring eventually breaks. There’s food now, but Geralt doesn’t like how small he is—he’s seven, but he’s the same size as the children in the village who are only six. He tells his mother as much. 

She says nothing. She looks down at her hands and keeps grinding cloves of garlic for a poultice. 

***

Outside a small village in the hills of Kaedwan, sees his mother for the last time, even though he doesn’t know it’s the last time. She rides down the road and he stays by the side.

He thinks about her, often. He thinks of her whenever he hears someone speak about death in a soft way. He thinks of her when he hears of people who have ‘passed on’ or when he hears that someone has ‘lost’ their loved one. His mother has passed him on. She’s lost. But she’s still alive. 

He thinks of her and he thinks of how love and loss are a nasty, tangled web. He cannot separate one from the other. Love and anger, he thinks, are also the same. 

* * *

In Kaer Morhen, Geralt trains. He has no other choice. Well, he does have a choice: train or die. And that’s not a real choice, that’s only an illusion. 

Geralt wonders if all choices are the same. Perhaps there is always only one true option and everything else is just a fantasy? Maybe that was what his mother had meant by letting destiny take its course—surrendering the illusion of choice and accepting that there is only one path for each person in life. 

At night, Geralt stirs. He turns over the question of destiny in his head. If destiny is real, he doesn’t much like it. What force would set him on this path? He hears the boy next to him groans in pain. Across the room, three cots sit empty. Why did destiny assign them such cruel lots? 

***

In Kaer Morhen, Geralt learns. He learns of monsters and demons that lurk in the dark. He learns which ones are myths and which ones are terrifyingly real. He learns how to kill them, how to break curses, how to knock them down. He learns how to fight with his sword. How to fight without his sword. He learns the danger that comes with each monster. He learns how to make potions to strengthen himself to face them and potions to heal himself once they’re through.

He learns all this because he can’t afford not to. 

Learn or die. There’s that choice again. The choice that’s not really a choice. It all makes his head throb when he starts to think about it, so he tries not to think about it. 

Geralt focuses on learning. He pours everything he can into his training. It’s all he can do to survive. 

Sometimes, at night when he lays in his cot, he dreams of what his life will be when he leaves this place, but he can’t cut through the fog. 

***

In Kaer Morhen, Geralt changes. The potion worms past his lips and _burns._

His blood is fire, razing his body as it pumps through his veins. He can’t see. His world goes dark. Will it ever be light again? All of his pain folds inward and back on itself. Vaguely, Geralt knows he’s doubled over on the ground with a cold sweat gathering all over his body. His body feels heavy and slow and far away. 

He’s heard this kills most of the boys. 

They didn’t tell him that, but he’s heard the rumours all the same. 

Geralt tries to scream, but he can’t. He tries to lift his arms and claw at his skin, but can’t. He’s trapped—frozen in his mind while his body mutates. 

Finally, after what might’ve been hours or days or only minutes, the pain eases. Geralt presses his dry and cracked lips together. 

When he opens his eyes, he _sees._

There are colours he can’t put names to. He can see every scratch on every brick on the other side of the room. Every speck of dust may as well be a planet hanging in orbit. 

Geralt’s breath catches in his throat at the beauty of it all. 

The air is thick with scents. He can smell everyone who’s been in the room before. Especially the ones with the muck on their boots or the ones who hadn’t washed in a while (which, if he’s honest, is most of them). The light smoke of a fire in a hearth drifts from another room. Someone cooks a dinner of chicken and potatoes all coated in herbs. 

Outside, he hears birds flutter past. 

The world is so full and overwhelming he thinks he might explode. There’s too much light and too much sound. There are too many scents. Even the air tastes stale on his tongue. 

As Geralt stands, he feels every fibre of his muscles twitch. He’s acutely aware of where his clothes rub and dig into his skin. At the nape of his neck, cold sweat gathers and trickles down his back. 

Geralt wonders what he looks like. He’s seen the other men, the older Witchers. 

There are no mirrors in Kaer Morhen. 

***

In Kaer Morhen, Geralt prepares to leave. He’s done—he’s alive. Most of the other boys are not. He’s ready to leave the mountains and roam the continent as a Witcher. He’s ready to find the monsters and slay them. As he packs his bag to leave, Vesemir knocks at his door. 

“Good luck, Geralt,” he says. 

Geralt nods. Despite everything that’s happened, he can’t hate the man. Vesemir cared too deeply for everyone—even the boys who did not survive the trials—for Geralt to truly and deeply hate him. 

Once, when he’d first arrived, Vesemir explained that Witchers are a necessary evil. They’re needed to keep the monsters that once plagued the continent at bay and ensure everyone’s safety. 

A load of horseshit, Geralt thinks, even if it is a convincing one. 

“I have some things I need to tell you,” Vesemir says. 

“I’ve learned everything I need to know about the monsters already,” Geralt says.

Vesemir sits at the end of his cot. “This isn’t about the monsters. Let’s call this...some professional advice.”

“Hmm.” Geralt stops packing and turns to the man. 

“Don’t get attached to anyone,” Vesemir says. “It will bring only pain.”

A noise of protest bubbles in Geralt’s throat—he’s been told that much already. Several times.

Vesemir raises his hand to stop Geralt. “No, this isn’t about being a Witcher. This is about _you._ Attachment to humans only ends in heartbreak. At worst, they’ll be dragged into a fight with a monster. At best, you’ll have to watch them age and die while you, boy, stay unchanged.” Vesemir’s eyes are watery and distant.

He speaks from experience, Geralt guesses. 

“Second,” Vesemir says and clears his throat. “The rumours you’ll hear will be cruel. People will say you’re as much of a monster as the ones you fight. They’ll say you have no feelings. It will hurt, but let them say what they will.”

Geralt’s shoulders tense. “What? I—I don’t understand. How could any of that be good?”

“It’s for the best, boy. The people in these small towns already know what they believe. Trying to change their minds is a waste of your time and theirs.” Vesemir bundles his hands and sighs. “Besides, it’s good for business. People like to know that the Witcher they’ve hired will never feel fear.” 

Geralt nods slowly. It makes sense, even if he doesn’t like it. 

“And lastly,” Vesemir says, “pick a name. People won’t trust a Witcher from nowhere.” 

***

Outside of Kaer Morhen, Geralt saves a girl. 

She screams and vomits when she sees him.

That night, Geralt goes to a placid creek and stares at his reflection in the soft moonlight. His skin is so pale he sees his veins sticking through. He knew as much was true for the rest of his body, but he had failed to realize the same would be true for his face. As a child, he spent so much time outside his skin bronzed. 

His eyes are yellow. Like a wolf. Or a cat, maybe, but not like a human’s. He knew this much would be true, too. He’d seen the other Witchers and their supernatural eyes. Still, when he pictured himself in his head, he always saw himself with his warm brown eyes. 

The biggest shock, though, is his hair. Geralt runs his hand along the edge of his cut where it’s sheared close to his skull. 

His hair is grey. 

He hadn’t expected that. 

It’s straight now, too. His floppy curls are dead. 

Geralt straightens up and turns from his reflection. He skips a stone across the surface and watches the ripples peel the stillness away for a moment before the water returns to normal, as if the stone had never been there. 

* * *

In Rivia, Geralt fights his first monster. It’s a wraith and it goes down easy—he finds its body and drives a stake made of aspen through its chest. Afterward, he goes to the Alderman and collects his coin. The weight in his pocket is nice. He’s not used to having this freedom to himself. He goes to the inn and books a room for the night. The innkeep is quiet and gruff but serves Geralt all the same. 

He ruffles the pillow—the bed is surprisingly comfy—and folds his hands over his chest. No one bothers him. He's warm and well-fed. This life might not be the worst, after all. 

* * *

In Lyria, Geralt sleeps with a woman for the first time. It’s awkward and he fumbles around when he tries to untie the back of her dress. The woman is patient with him and hides her dissatisfaction fairly well, but Geralt still knows she’s disappointed. 

Geralt, on the other hand, is spent in more ways than one after a few thrusts. He knows how to slay a monster, how to take them down in precise cuts, but women? They’re a mystery to him. People, in general, escape him. What goes on behind their faces? He thinks he’s been isolated too long. 

“So, Geralt,” the woman says as they lay together in bed afterward. She runs her finger up his chest. “Where are you from?”

“Hmm.” Geralt pauses for a moment. “Rivia,” he says. “Geralt of Rivia.”

“Felitia of Lyria,” she says. “You up for round two?”

* * *

On the road to Maecht, Geralt breaks up a small gang of bandits that tried to ambush him. Poor fuckers had no clue what they were walking into. 

They leave behind their horse—a beautiful chestnut mare. Geralt loops his hand through her reigns and leads her away from the place. 

What can he call a horse this beautiful? A list of names run through his head, each one as laughable as the next. What would Vesemir say if he could see Geralt now? Thinking of calling his horse Buttercup?

Geralt smiles to himself. “Come on, Roach,” he says to his horse and rubs her neck. “Let’s go.”

* * *

In Brugge, the villagers demand he kill the werewolf that’s been lurking in the woods. 

“The beast’s killed five of my cattle,” one farmer insists.

“Slashed my son,” the seamstress says, “he nearly died from his wound. Spent a month in bed and still walks slow.” 

“It’s unnatural,” another townsperson spits. “We need it gone.”

The award they offer Geralt is substantial—more than enough to pad his pockets for the next few weeks. “I’ll deal with it,” he says. 

He waits two nights while the moon waxes to full. Geralt dons his armour and straps his weapons to his back. He unstoppers a potion and pours it down his mouth. It’s bitter and sour all at the same time; the sludge stings Geralt’s throat and sits like lead in his gut. 

_Fuck._ He shakes his head as if that will shake away the pain. The potion will boost his endurance—it’ll keep him moving and swift all night. But makes him feel as if his blood isn’t blood but molten iron instead. 

When Geralt looks in the dirty mirror, he can see his eyes. Rather, he can’t see them—they’re pits of black. Like a beetle’s. His glowing yellow irises are entirely gone, engulfed by the darkness. Under his eyes, dark veins snake down his face. 

Geralt pulls his hood over his head as he leaves the inn. The last thing he needs is for anyone to see him like this. 

In the woods, he finds the werewolf easily. He leaves a trail of destruction in his wake—animal entrails, broken twigs, rough prints. 

Geralt fights the werewolf. He swings his sword and backs him against the rocky side of a cave. All night, Geralt keeps him there. Even when he gnashes his teeth and swipes Geralt with his claws, he doesn't roll and strike to kill. 

When the dawn breaks, the wolf contorts and howls. A rough and bitter cry that rattles Geralt's heart and head. A man lays in the mud where the wolf was a moment ago. He’s covered in grime and dirt and blood. “What?” He blinks, raising his hands to block the light from his eyes.

Geralt stumbles forward, one hand on the gash across his thigh. With the other, he reaches into a pouch on his belt. “Here,” he says and thrusts a potion forward.

The man takes it. His eyes flit around the clearing—he’s lost and disoriented. “What is this?” he asks. His voice is raw and dry.

“Wolfsbane,” Geralt says. “Enough for the next month. You need to leave here. Go to Aretuza—someone there can break the curse for you.”

“But—but I _can’t_.” The man grips his hair in his hands. “I have a family here.”

“Hmm.”

“I can’t just leave them.”

“You can come back once you’re cured, but you’re liable to hurt them in a state like this.”

“No, no,” the man stutters. “I need to go home.” He starts to stand.

Geralt presses his hand roughly into the man's chest. “I don’t think you understand me,” he says. “You’re not returning to Brugge, one way or another. Do I make myself clear?”

The man reeks of fear. He swallows. “Perfectly.”

* * *

In Beauclair, Geralt sleeps with a man for the first time. He enjoys it, quite a lot. The cities offer a cover of anonymity that isn’t possible in the small villages. In the cities, he can be anyone. No one cares about his white hair (which he’s grown out) or his yellow eyes—they’ve all seen much stranger things. No one cares that Geralt brings the man to his room in the inn. They don’t care when they leave together in the morning. 

Cities are wonderful places. If they weren’t so loud and stinking, Geralt might consider staying. But it’s too much to live with forever.

* * *

In Blaviken, Geralt meets Marilka. She babbles on about the grand life she wishes for. He can’t say he blames her—he felt the same when he was young. He hopes that one day she will leave and see the continent. 

His walk with her is short but enjoyable, although he would never admit that. It’s nice to have someone else talk, even when he doesn’t reply. He spends too much of his time in silence. 

***

Outside of Blaviken, Renfiri tells him the prophecy. 

_The girl in the woods will be with you always._

Does she speak of herself? Geralt’s head hurts. 

Destiny, he thinks, can go fuck itself.

* * *

In Geso, the villagepeople shun Geralt out of town. He’d come to help with their infestation of ghouls.

“We don’t want you here, _butcher,_ ” one woman spits.

Geralt sets up his camp in the open plain outside the village. There’s not much in the way of shelter around here. Before he goes to sleep, he brushes the knots out of Roach’s mane. 

“I’m sorry, girl,” he says. “We’ll find a better place to rest tomorrow.”

He doesn’t sleep well. He can’t remember the last time he got a full night's sleep. _The Butcher of Blaviken._ The name sits in his head and rattles around, picking up other dark thoughts on its way.

* * *

In a tavern in Posada, he hears someone singing. It’s been a long time since he listened to a song. He sits still and watches the man strum away on his lute. His voice is pleasant, even if his lyrics are not. 

The other men in the bar throw bread his way and the bard brushes it aside and pockets a few of the buns. His eyes meet Geralt’s and he takes that as an invitation to come over. 

“I love the way that you just sit in the corner and… broad,” the man says.

“Hm.” Geralt turns his head. He’s not in the mood for conversation.

He asks Geralt what he thinks. “Three words or less,” he says and sits across from Geralt.

Geralt steadies himself and pulls his face into a hardened mask. “They don’t exist.” 

He swears to the gods the man’s eyes light up. His warm brown hair is swept over his forehead. The man’s lashes are long and flicker over his eyes—the blue of the endless skies in Kaedwan. And his lips…

_Fuck._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lullaby Geralt's mother sings:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6iCklc-j04M  
> (It's about how the Romans ordered all the male children to be killed after Jesus' birth--you know, the fun stuff to tell your kid before bed)
> 
> The awesome map I used for reference:  
> https://www.witchernetflix.com/en-gb


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took a lot out of me. I finished it through a bunch of tears after I watched The Good Place finale last night and I stayed up til 4 editing this. Enjoy my mess.

Outside of Posada, Geralt sinks his fist into Jaskier’s gut. It’s not hard—the bard would be spitting blood if he didn’t pull his punch—but it’s enough to make Jaskier double over and sputter. _Good_ , Geralt thinks. Maybe he’ll leave him alone now and never bring up the whole Butcher of Blaviken thing again. 

It’s not that he hates the bard. He’s a bit annoying, but if Geralt’s being honest, he makes for better company than Roach. Much nicer to look at, too. Even if he does say ridiculous things about how Geralt smells like ‘death and destiny’ and ‘heroics and heartbreak’. 

The thing is that no one has ever followed Geralt before. On the occasions when a villager or alderman needs his work, they’ll hire Geralt and slap the coin in his hand when the monster’s dead. Usually, he’ll stay the night at an inn and head off the next morning and never see those faces again. They don’t follow him. And they certainly don’t follow him into danger. 

So when the bard rallies and carries on at Geralt’s heels, he really doesn’t know what to do. The last thing he needs is an injured bard to lug around—the whole point of a Witcher is to go where no one else wants to go and fight the monster that no one else wants to fight. It makes no sense. Really. Even if the bard does want some riveting tales, he won’t be able to share them with anyone if he’s dead. 

But, at the end of the day, he can’t choose for Jaskier. If the bard wants to die, well, that’s his choice. If Geralt refused him outright, the bard would just go looking for adventure on his own. 

Geralt’s met people like him before. The ones that are never satisfied with their quiet lives. Like the folks his mother used to heal who ventured across the continent. Geralt wonders if there’s something deep in their bones that pushes them onward, ever onward. 

Or maybe it’s a mental affliction. 

“What are you looking for?” the bard asks at the edge of the world.

“Blessed silence,” Geralt grunts. He _does_ need silence now. He needs to listen for the rustle of the grasses, concentrate on searching for any tracks, sense the—

“Nah,” Jaskier says, “I don’t really go for that.”

It really shouldn’t be a surprise that the bard follows him after their adventure of the day is through. 

Somehow, Geralt still is surprised that Jaskier is still with him when night falls. As he lays to rest at their campsite, he listens to Jaskier’s heavy breath and the thump of his heart nestled deep in his chest. 

Most of the time, Geralt associates surprise with negative things: a different monster than he expected is barreling at him, some villager short-changed him, the lacewing powder he bought for a potion is cut with beetle wings. Good surprises are few and far between. 

In the morning, Geralt stirs early. Jaskier is still out to the world and hugging his lute to his chest as if it was a lover. 

Geralt sparks a fire to light and leaves to hunt a rabbit. On his way back to their campsite, he hears Jaskier before he sees him. Or rather he hears the strum of his lute (which sounds really fucking _good_ ) reverberating through the trees. 

“ _Toss a coin to your Witcher, oh valley of plenty, oh valley of plenty, oh oh oh._ ” 

The song won’t worm its way out of Geralt’s head—he finds himself humming as he treks back through the trees. It’s a catchy tune, he’ll give Jaskier that much. 

* * *

In Spalla, Geralt buys Jaskier a gift. It’s more of a necessity than a want, given that Jaskier nearly died the day before. They’ve been travelling together for only three moons now, and the bard has brushed death as many times. 

It needs to stop, Geralt decides. 

Especially since this time, it was entirely Jaskier’s fault. If the bard would just learn to leave things be, none of it would have happened. 

They’d been walking through the woods when the bard stopped to rest. He sat on a fallen log, kicked up his feet, and had started to strum a new tune when a bear cub lumbered out of the woods. 

And—because Jaskier had no sense of self-preservation—the idiot went up to _pet_ the damned thing as if it were some prized pup. When the mother bear came thundering after her cub a moment later, eyes wide and teeth-gnashing, Geralt really didn’t know why Jaskier acted so shocked. Didn’t he know not to get between a mother and her cubs?

For Geralt, it had been an easy swipe of a sword. The mother would live, but she cleared off, her cub in tow. 

“Thanks,” Jaskier mumbled as he stood and brushed the dirt from his pants. 

“Hmm.” The bard had nothing, save his lute (and Geralt knows how likely he is to give that up) to defend himself with. 

So, in Spalla, Geralt heads to the market. It’s a busy and bustling place. An assault on his nose and ears. 

He finds the stall he’s looking for fast enough. 

“Can I help you?” the teenage boy working the stall asks. His voice is unsure. He eyes Geralt from boots to hair—probably wondering what a Witcher is doing at this stall, of all places. 

“I’ve heard you make fine daggers,” Geralt says.

“They’re my father’s, but yes, sir. Finest craftsman in all of Lyria.”

“May I?” Geralt gestures down at the table.

The teen nods and Geralt picks up the dagger. He wasn’t lying—the daggers are finely crafted. The weight is balanced and even, the metal is sharp and sturdy. The hilt is gilded and carved with a simple but pleasant design. Geralt moves his hand with the dagger in it. It’s a manageable weapon, for certain. Perfect for a beginner. 

“I’ll take it,” he says and sets down an uncomfortable amount of coin. 

That night, back at the fire of their campsite, Geralt takes the dagger from his bag. “Here,” he says and thrusts the blade hilt first at Jaskier.

The bard blinks. “I—I don’t—”

“Yes, you do need one. I’m not coming around to save you every time you decide to befriend a bear cub.”

Jaskier takes the blade without another word and turns it over in his hands. “Geralt… this is too much. Thank you.”

“Hmm.” Geralt stands and heads back to Roach. He unpacks a bag and avoids the stare he knows Jaskier is giving him. “I can show you how to use it,” he offers. 

Jaskier swings the dagger through the air as if it were a broadsword. 

“ _Properly_ ,” Geralt adds. 

He swears the bard will be the death of him. 

* * *

On the bank of the Velda river, Geralt stops for lunch. Jaskier stops too—the bard mostly mirrors his movements. Geralt thinks Jaskier should’ve been nicknamed for a bird. The bard is all fluttery movements and songs and more than a fair share of preening. Mostly, Geralt thinks Jaskier follows him the way that a bird would follow its flock. They’re not side-by-side all the time—Jaskier flies off and sings in taverns and flirts without discrimination and plays for royal courts, but he eventually makes his way back to Geralt. 

It works well like this, Geralt thinks. It’s been working for nearly a year now. It’s comfortable. Easy. For a change, he has some company other than Roach. (Not that she’s a bad companion, but he appreciates it when he doesn’t have to do all the talking.)

Today, when they stop at the riverbank, Jaskier ditches his jacket. “Too warm,” he mumbles and pulls on the collar of his shirt. “I’m going to have the worst sunburn.”

“Hmm.”

The day _is_ hot and the sun is bright, but not unseasonably so for late spring this far South. In fact, the weeks of rain that had plagued them on their trip down were the anomaly.

They’d come this way because he’d heard rumours of a Cockatrice terrorizing travellers on a road not far from Winneburg. Apparently the villagers were willing to pay handsomely for its removal. 

“ _You_ are going to get a sunburn,” Jaskier continues. “You’re even paler than me. Gods, what I would pay to see that. The red skin would go well with the white hair.”

In spite of himself, Geralt smirks. “Can’t get sunburned.”

“You—what? You’re white as a ghost, Geralt. You must cover that skin up once in a while.”

“I heal,” Geralt says. “The burn won’t take.”

Jaskier shakes his head and stretches out and bites into his apple. “Lucky,” he says through a mouthful of fruit. 

“Hmm.”

  
After lunch, they continue on up the riverbank. 

“Gods,” Jaskier says, “it’s _hot_ today.” He pulls his collar away from his neck. 

“Thanks for reminding me,” Geralt says. “I wouldn’t have noticed otherwise.”

“Is that sarcasm I detect? How un-Witcherly.”

Geralt rolls his eyes. Even though Jaskier can’t see, he needs to react somehow. 

“How much longer are we planning on travelling today?” Jaskier asks. “I need to know so I can plan when to pass out.”

“Another hour,” Geralt says. He glances at the sun (still high) and thinks of how far away Winneburg still is. “Maybe two.”

The bard groans, but continues to trudge along. He rambles on about the dangers of walking in the heat, goes off on a tangent about his favourite professor, winds his way _back_ to the whole heat exhaustion thing, moves on to singing some half-started tune about a fishmonger’s son, and ends up rambling off an old legend he heard when he was a kid. “I’m telling you Geralt, Ricon wouldn’t have lied to me and his cousin Saran wouldn’t have lied to _him._ She was up North, she said, in some wild kingdom and some scrawny child really did pull the sword straight out of the stone. Bloody brilliant, really. I mean, can you imagine the nobles' faces when they found out they were bested by a _seven-year-old?_ I would’ve paid good coin to see that. Not that I’ve got any…”

Geralt turns to see why Jaskier trailed off his story. He was enjoying it, he would privately admit, although he’d never tell the bard that much. “Jaskier,” he says, finally. 

The bard stands still and stares through a break in the trees. 

“So busy running your mouth you’ve forgotten how your legs work?” Geralt quips. He smiles to himself. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier says. “ _Look_ —“ he jams his finger forward through the trees, towards where the mouth of the river meets the ocean— “at that.”

Geralt brings Roach to a stop. He turns his head in the direction of Jaskier’s hand. “You’ve seen the ocean before,” Geralt says. 

“Sure, up North. Where it’s all rocky cliffs and frigid air. But this… it’s heavenly. Don’t you think?” He turns to Geralt with an expression so open and full of wonder it nearly hurts. 

When had the world dulled? There was a time when every corner, when every turn and every line and every rise of the continent amazed Geralt. When he’d travel with his head craned up and admire every splendid thing. It’s been so long since he stopped to notice anything but the din of the world. 

“Hmm.” He nudges Roach’s side and she steps forward along the trail that runs in the trees, parallel to the coast. About another half hour ahead, the path will turn off back toward the mainland. 

Jaskier isn’t behind Geralt. The damn fool is pushing through the trees, toward the water. 

“For fuck’s sake,” he mumbles to himself and turns around. 

“Where the fuck are you going?” he calls to the bard. 

Jaskier stands in the sand and smiles. “Come on, Geralt. We can stop for a few hours. It’ll just mean we get into Winneburg in the afternoon tomorrow instead of for lunch. Let’s take a break.”

The bard’s right, unfortunately. It _doesn’t_ matter if they spend a few hours here. Geralt doesn’t know what to say. 

Thankfully, he doesn’t have to respond. Jaskier marches up the sand dune and slides toward the water. Geralt ties Roach to a tree and hovers where the grass meets the sand. The beach isn’t really his scene. 

“Come on!” Jaskier calls. “This is the nicest weather we’ve had in ages. By the time we’re heading back North, it might be raining again and this lovely little strip of sand will look no different than those miserable excuses for beaches in Thymeria.” 

Geralt sits on the grass and removes his boots. He lifts off his armour and sets it next to Roach and the trunk of some sort of tree he doesn’t know the name of. “I’m fine here.”

Jaskier shrugs. “Suit yourself.” 

The next thing Geralt knows, Jaskier is stripping without regard. He tosses off his shirt and lets it fall to the sand. Hops on one foot and chucks his boot aside then switches to the other foot and does the same. Pushes his pants down from his hips. A wake of clothes follow in his sand-pressed footsteps. 

It’s not that Geralt hasn’t seen Jaskier naked before—he has, many times. Hazard of sharing small spaces. But it was one thing to strip quickly and then dress. This—well, this felt intimate. As if he was seeing Jaskier in his entirety. The bard holds nothing back as he jumps into the lightly rolling waves. Geralt is certain the water was only a shade lighter than the bard’s eyes. 

_Pasty_ —that’s what Jaskier always called himself. Some bard. Geralt can think of a dozen other words that would capture the bard. Fine. Delicate. Glowing. 

The sun starts to sink lower, and Jaskier gets out of the ocean. He rests against some driftwood in only a pair of old slacks while Geralt starts a fire. 

“Isn’t this nice?” Jaskier says. The saltwater curls the edges of his hair. 

Geralt lifts his head to the sky. The waning warmth of the sun washes over him—across his face and down his neck. He stokes the fire. It _is_ nice, he thinks. 

For the first time in a long while, everything doesn’t seem as heavy. 

* * *

Outside of Winneburg, Geralt fucks Jaskier for the first time. 

It’s difficult to pinpoint the exact moment the whole thing started. Geralt could say it started with him watching Jaskier strip and jump into the ocean. It might’ve even started back in Posada when the bard came up to him with a wicked smile pasted across his face. For simplicity's sake, the most concrete account of the event starts with Geralt heading to a marsh to kill a cockatrice.

As it turns out, the Cockatrice isn’t a Cockatrice, but a basilisk instead. Geralt slays it all the same (albeit with an extra dose of cursing). 

He stalks back through the woods to the campsite he shares with Jaskier. The edge of the potion hasn’t worn off yet—he feels the boost of adrenaline surge through his veins. It puts him on edge. Every noise has him twitching, ready to react. 

Geralt hears Jaskier before he sees him. He hears the rustle of the bedroll, the clatter of the contents of a bag. The trees here aren’t thick, and soon Geralt sees the bard. His face is pained and he wields the dagger Geralt gave him. Clearly, he’d heard something stirring in the trees and actually decided to defend himself this time. His stance isn’t bad—he might have a fighting chance after all. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt calls. A reassurance and a call to stand down all rolled into one. 

The bard nearly jumps out of his boots. He drops his dagger in the dirt and, in his panic, catches himself and tumbles ass-first on the ground. So much for that fighting chance.

From where Geralt is, he can smell Jaskier’s fear. It’s a pale sweat that clings to his underarms and runs down the nape of his neck. The bard’s heart beats like a bird’s wings flutter. His breath is ragged. One of those things alone, Geralt could excuse. But altogether? Jaskier is _terrified._

“What the fuck are you doing?” Geralt spits. 

Jaskier stands and brushes the dirt from his pants. “Thought you were something else,” he grumbles. 

“Hmm.” Geralt doesn’t quite believe the bard. His heart still hammers—Geralt should’ve heard the rhythm slow by now, as Jaskier realized he had nothing to fear. 

Unless.

Geralt swallowed. His eyes, he knew, were still dead-black. The kind of colour that never failed to make everyone uncomfortable (at best) or scream in horror (at worst). 

“Did you kill the Cockatrice, though?” Jaskier sounds… off. But he keeps rambling nonetheless. “That’s the important bit, really. I don’t want to get snapped up and devoured by some beast in the middle of the night.”

Geralt answers his queries. Had he really thought Jaskier was different? The bard didn’t seem like everyone else. Hell, Geralt _knew_ the bard wasn’t like everyone else. He was sharp and witty, with a stinging sense of clarity. Jaskier saw straight through legends and myths and rumours—but that wasn’t to say he dismissed them. No—the bard knew all of the stories everyone whispered and repeated had some core truth under the invented decorations. 

Were his black eyes enough to trip the bard up? 

Jaskier kept rambling on, not meeting his gaze. 

Geralt’s throat rumbles with discomfort. “You reek of fear,” he says. It’s all he can smell. It overpowers the bard’s usual scent of soap and wildflower. Geralt’s nose burns.

“Geralt,” the bard says, his voice small. “I’m not afraid of _you_.” He stares at Geralt earnestly, as if he’d just said the most obvious thing in the world. 

_I’m not afraid of you_. If Geralt had a coin for every time he’d heard someone say that to him, he’d have enough coin that he wouldn’t need a song begging the valley to toss him one. But it’s a lie, every time. A bluff. Geralt’s nostrils flare; he squares his shoulders and walks toward Jaskier until they’re nearly touching. Jaskier will back down first, Geralt knows, and prove he didn’t mean what he just said. 

Except he doesn’t back away.

He does the opposite, really. His hand moves to Geralt’s cheek and he fixes his dazed stare so deeply in Geralt’s eyes he’s certain that the bard is seeing straight through him. 

“No,” he says, “I could never be afraid of you.”

Jaskier’s lips press against Geralt’s.

For a moment, he’s too stunned to react. Frozen in disbelief at the reality that just came to pass. The adrenaline coursing through Geralt’s veins boils into fire. He pulls Jaskier closer, his hands run down the bard’s slim body. Every inch of him feels alive. If Geralt is a fuse, Jaskier is the spark. 

The bard’s tongue dances in his mouth and Geralt catches his lips with his teeth. 

Jaskier groans and Geralt feels himself twitch. It’s all he can do to stop his hips from bucking and grinding against the bard’s. 

“You like that?” He hums in Jaskier’s ear. 

Jaskier runs his hand through Geralt’s hair and _pulls_. Does he even realize what he’s doing? His head leans back in bliss, bearing his neck to Geralt. “Gods, don’t stop,” Jaskier breathes. 

Geralt doesn’t.

He can’t hold enough of the bard in his hands. He wants every inch of him, he wants to hold him, to mark him, to claim him. Let the world know that Jaskier is _his_. In the flurry of movement, Geralt loses himself. Warmth slides down his neck as Jaskier presses kisses against his skin. Geralt lifts him and pins him against a tree. 

Jaskier yanks on Geralt’s armour. “Please. Get this off.”

“You sure?” Geralt’s never been happier to oblige, but only if the bard’s in this with him, without a shadow of a doubt.

“Always.”  
They crash together. A cacophony of chaotic movement. They strip and reach for each other and learn the melody of the other. 

Jaskier’s head dips between Geralt’s thighs. The bard is sunkissed—the faintest glow of brown paints his skin. 

When he wraps his lips around Geralt’s cock and _sucks_ , Geralt’s nearly certain it’ll be over right then. He grasps the bard’s hair with his hand and groans and shudders and bucks. 

Geralt hooks his hands into the dip of Jaskier’s hips and flips the bard over. He can hear Jaskier’s heart flutter and his breath quicken to match the beat. 

“Oil’s in my bag,” he chokes out.

“Hmm.” Geralt parts from the bard, his unbridled want already stirring at the thought of leaving Jaskier. As quickly as he can, Geralt roots through the bag, finds the oil, and works his fingers to stretch open the bard. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, his breath hitching. “ _Please._ ”

It’s more than Geralt can stand. He wants the bard—he wants every part of him. He has since they started kissing, he has since the beach, since their travels, since the moment he saw Jaskier in a bar in Posada. 

He thrusts in and Jaskier groans. 

He pulls the bard’s hair. He traces a line of light nips down his neck, over his shoulder, onto his back. He grips Jaskier’s hips and pulls their bodies together.

“Mine,” he whispers in the bard’s ear and moves his mouth to his necks and sucks a mark into his skin. He works his way down the bard’s back with not-so-light nips. The bard tastes of sea salt and sweat and desire. It sits heavy on Geralt’s tongue. 

Jaskier comes with a shudder. His scent washes over Geralt. It’s too much. He’s dizzy and lost to the world. 

Geralt thrusts and groans and collapses on the bard. _Fuck._

He wraps his arms around the bard and holds Jaskier to his chest, not wanting to let go. What if he didn’t? What if he gave up everything? A quiet life with Jaskier’s shape would suit him well. 

Jaskier turns his head and kisses Geralt lightly. 

“Does it hurt?” he whispers, running his thumb under Geralt’s eyes. 

“Hmm?” Full words are too heavy, right now. Sleep tugs at the edges of Geralt’s brain.

“Your eyes, when they’re like that, does it hurt?”

“Side effect,” Geralt mumbles, his eyes lowering with sleep. “Stings a bit,” he decides on because that’s nicer than _burns like hell_.

Jaskier might’ve said something else, but Geralt can’t be certain. Sleep carries him off and welcomes him into the darkness. 

He wakes to something stirring under his arm. For a second, he blinks. Tries to put his head on straight. Untangle himself from dreams and reality. 

Jaskier beams at him. His scent mingles with Geralt’s. Soap and wildflower and leather and smoke. It’s intoxicating. Geralt could happily get drunk off it all over again. 

But as his eyes sweep down over Jaskier, he sobers. 

The bard’s body is covered in a litany of marks. Deep hickeys on his neck and back. Half-moons of teeth push up light pink spots across his skin. His hips have twin bruises where Geralt gripped. 

Reality slides into his stomach and spins around. How could he have been so stupid? The bard is so soft, so human. None of this could ever work.

Geralt remembered what Vesemir had warned him about all those years ago: nothing good could come from loving a human. He’d lose the bard, whether it be to a monster or time, it didn’t matter. He’d lose Jaskier. He’d hurt the bard and then lose him. 

“Last night was a mistake,” Geralt says. He stands and dresses and tries not to look at Jaskier, who he knows is staring at his back with broken eyes. Geralt shoulders his bag and walks to Roach. 

He’s well into the woods when he hears Jaskier. “Don’t leave,” he says, a plea so soft that no one but a Witcher could hear. 

Something stirs behind Geralt’s breastbone. He leaves all the same. 

* * *

In Temeria, Geralt stops a Striga. He doesn’t kill it. He saves the princess. 

This should be a win. 

So why does he feel so hollow?

* * *

In Redannia, Geralt gets contracted to kill a manticore. He’s travelling from Prana to Tridam (where the damned thing supposedly is) when he stops in a small town along the way. The winter’s coming sooner than he’d like, and he’s got a fair bit of coin leftover from the whole mess with the Striga, so he splurges on a room at the inn and a bath to boot. 

As soaks in the warm water and works out the knots in his muscles, he hears music start to play in the tavern below. A few light and catchy tunes start it off. They’re pleasant enough, but Geralt would really prefer some peace and quiet. He can never go more than a few days, it seems, without someone asking him for something. He thought the one silver-lining of being a monster-killer-for-hire would be that he didn’t need to answer to anyone. He was sorely wrong. He had to answer to _everyone._ Anyone with enough coin or a sob story. Geralt splashes the water across his face and rubs his eyes. He’d like to answer to himself, for once. Rest and not worry about how he’d find enough money to survive another winter. Go wherever he wants instead of being tied to the next contract. 

As he works out a particularly stubborn knot in his calf, the music shifts. Geralt stills. He’d know that tune anywhere. It’s hard to say for certain who is singing, though. There’s too much noise—half the tavern is singing along, loud and off-key. 

Geralt hauls himself out of the tub, dries quickly, and throws on his clothes. Half-way down the stairs, he realizes that the voice belongs to exactly who he feared—or maybe hoped—it would be. 

Jaskier stands on the shoddy wooden platform and sings away. 

Geralt slinks into a seat at the back and orders an ale. As he reaches the bottom of the tankard, he debates whether or not he should stay. Maybe he could climb back upstairs without being noticed? It’d save a lot of pain and awkwardness all around. 

Jaskier catches his eye. The bard flushes and stares down at the place where his fingers meet his lute, which is bullshit because he could play that thing in his sleep. 

So much for leaving. 

Geralt sighs and orders another ale. He might be here for a while.

Jaskier strums the final note of his song and stops. “Thank you,” he says with a dazzling smile and wave. “I’m here all night!” Instead of continuing onto his next song though, he hops off the stage and weaves his way through the crowd of onlookers (who cheer and clap him on the back) until he makes his way to Geralt.

Fuck. 

Geralt takes a swig of ale. He thought he had more time to plan out everything he was going to say. “Hmm,” he says, by default. 

“It’s good to see you again,” Jaskier says. His heartbeat doesn’t change. He means his words. “I thought that we might never cross paths again. It would be a real tragedy, you know—” he coughs, lightly, and blushes even more— “for my songs.”

“Your songs?”

“Yeah. They’re all getting a bit repetitive. Ever bard worth their salt from here to Nilfgaard has worked up they’re own take on “Toss a coin to your Witcher”. It’s getting old, you know. Even if it is catchy.” The bard sighs and sits across from Geralt. “I need more material. I’ve tried—I really have—to keep writing, but everything I churn out is dull. Boring-with-a-capital-b.”

“So you want to follow me around again?” This is dangerous territory, Geralt knows. 

“Just until I have a few new ballads under my belt,” Jaskier promises. “I’ve been asked to play for some courts, you know. I’ll be like a little bird—you won’t even notice me when I’m around and, if you do, I’ll take off on my way.”

“Hmm.” Geralt drinks. He seriously doubts there’s any version of them travelling together where he just ignores Jaskier. 

“Anyway,” Jaskier says, popping up, “I’m getting a drink and finishing my set.”  
“You do that.”

“And I’ll see you after, okay? We can both get our beauty sleep before we take off tomorrow morning for…”

“Tridam,” Geralt grumbles. “There’s a manticore.”

The bard’s eyes flash with light. “Brilliant.” Jaskier moves back to the bar and signals the barkeep. Before he can reach into his purse to pay, another man with long, dark hair and high cheekbones sets a handful of coins on the counter. He leans in toward Jaskier and whispers in his ear what exactly he’d like to do to Jaskier when he gets off that stage. 

Geralt squeezes the tankard in his hand. The blood pounds in his ears. He shouldn’t have eavesdropped, but it wasn’t exactly like he could avoid hearing every damned thing, whether or not he wanted to.

Besides, he tells himself, he gave up any right to be jealous of Jaskier’s lovers in the forest outside of Winneburg. He has no right to feel as angry as he is at the bard, but it might be easier if he thought that the other man could just be a quick fuck. But he sees the look Jaskier is giving the man. The bard can’t go five minutes without falling in love with someone else. Someone that’s not Geralt. 

Even though he knows it’s not his place, he knows he gave it all up, it still hurts like hell. 

* * *

In Cintra, Geralt receives a child surprise. Fate has a cruel sense of humour, one that he refuses to be a part of. 

He only went to the banquet at all because of Jaskier. If anyone else even so much as _suggested_ he dress as a silk trader and act as a bodyguard for hire, he would’ve sent them running to the hills. 

He can’t say no to the bard. But that doesn’t mean he can’t admit Jaskier is more annoying than he has any right to be.

Geralt has his crisis in the corridor outside of the banquet hall. After hardly a moment to himself to think it all through, he hears footsteps falling closer. 

“Wow. Just wow, who would have thought the night would turn out like this? After all your cankering and complaining, the night ends like this. What a night. What. A. Night!”

“Fuck off, Jaskier.” He can’t deal with this right now. 

“Oh, come on, you must have something to say about it all? Maybe I should offer my congratulations, eh? You do have a child, now. So much for your whole ‘I don’t want anyone needing me’ thing. ”

Geralt grabs the front of Jaskier’s shirt and pulls him close. “You,” he spits, stumbling on his words. How can he sum up everything that’s brewing in his heart and head? “I didn’t want a scene, not tonight. You dragged me into this mess of destiny. I want nothing to do with it.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in destiny.”

“I don’t.” Geralt pushes Jaskier back lightly—okay, and maybe a tad dramatically—and turns down the hall. He needs some time to himself. He needs to think this all through. Where can a child fit into his life? Where can Jaskier? 

“Neither do I,” Jaskier whispers. 

Geralt doesn’t turn to reply. 

* * *

On the plains of Metinna, Geralt drives his sword through the core of an Echinops. It falls to the ground in a pathetic slump. 

Geralt goes to the alderman and collects his coin. 

“Dunno why we have the worst luck ‘round here,” the man says as he drops the pouch of coins in Geralt’s hand. “First the bandits, then the ruddy Echinops. Maybe we could get somthin’ good for once.”

“Is there any good kind of monster?” Geralt asks.

“Not sure,” he answers. “But I heard up in Rinde they got a Djinn. Wouldn’t turn my nose up at that.”

* * *

In Rinde, Geralt nearly loses Jaskier. 

The image of the bard and his swollen neck and lungfuls of blood swirl in Geralt’s head. What would he have done if he’d lost him? He’d made a mistake—he’d only insulted Jaskier because he wouldn’t stop rambling on about his _countess_. What if the last thing he’d ever said to the bard was something so cruel?

The pain of nearly losing Jaskier shadows anything he finds in Yen. 

Yen is great, really. She’s beautiful and sharp. She’s also closed off and defensive. She doesn’t wear her heart on her sleeve. 

She doesn’t age as normal humans do either. 

Geralt can’t help himself from feeling that double sting—whatever he did to save her, he’s bound to her. And neither he nor Yen are going away any time soon.

He should be happy. Yen could be his chance to circumvent every danger of love that Vesemir ever drilled into his head. 

There’s just one small issue: she’s not Jaskier.

* * *

On a path in the Kestre Mountains, Jaskier slips. 

It’s not that bad of a fall. Nothing more than a tumble into a ditch, really. The bard stands up right away.

“I told you to be careful,” Geralt says, “the gravel is loose. This isn’t a well-travelled path.”

“I know that,” Jaskier snaps. He brushes some gravel out of his skinned elbow and prods the hole in his sleeve. In fact, the whole jacket is torn through—a large chunk of the back hangs from the branch of a bush a few feet up. “I just had this made,” he complains as he makes his way back onto the main trail. “Seven months, I’m fine by myself, and then you come along and I’ve got a bloodied elbow and ruined jacket in half a day.” 

Geralt rolls his eyes. “It’s not like I pushed you. Besides, we’ll be back in town in an hour. Then you can return to your plush bed and soft robes. I bet you even have a servant to fill a hot bath for you.”

Jaskier lets out a strangled laugh. “A servant? Ha! Geralt, I was wrong about you. You _truly_ do have a sense of humour. I always suspected it—especially after that whole bit about me being a eunuch—but now I’m certain.”

“Hmm.” Geralt’s lip quirks up. It’s easy to fall into this pace together, no matter how long they spend apart. 

They walk on together, but Jaskier isn’t as chatty as normal. He holds his arms to himself and rubs his hands along his bare skin.

It’s not _cold_ , Geralt thinks, but it is getting cooler as the sun sinks below the edges of the mountains. Night falls quickly in these hills and brings a bitter chill. 

Geralt hears Jaskier’s teeth clatter against each other, but the bard doesn’t say anything. _For fuck’s sake._ “Are you cold?”

Jaskier shakes his head. “N-no. ‘m fine,” he says with a shiver. 

Does he know how painfully stubborn he is? Geralt shrugs off his cloak and shoves it in Jaskier’s direction. “Here. I’m not carrying you back into town when you freeze your toes off.”

For a moment, Jaskier hesitates. “Won’t you be cold?”

“I’ve been colder.”

“That’s not a real answer.”

“I’ll be fine, Jaskier. Just take the damn thing.”

A gust of wind sweeps through the hills and Jaskier accepts the cloak and tosses it on. The fabric hangs slightly loose and trails in the dirt behind him, but it’s not as if the bard’s drowning in the thing. “Thank you,” he says.

Geralt nods. He tries to put Jaskier out of his head. He tries not to dwell on how their scents mix in the air. 

When they reach town, Jaskier parts ways. He’s got a performance for the court tomorrow and Geralt’s heard rumblings of something lurking on the shores of the Arc Coast. 

“It was good to see you,” Jaskier says as he hands back the cloak.

“Likewise,” he says with a nod and watches the bard disappear behind the gates of a modest castle.

Geralt fastens his cloak and gets Roach from the stable. He’s still got another hour’s ride ahead of him if he wants to reach the Northern shore by night tomorrow. He would have reached the shore today, but he’d opted for a detour. He also may have exaggerated how necessary it was to scout these hills. 

“Come on, Roach,” he says and rubs her neck. She leans in and brays. 

As he rides on, he can’t think of anything but his cloak—the fabric is soaked with Jaskier’s scent. Soap and wildflower. It’s so comfortable and familiar. He never wants it to fade. 

* * *

In the Cairngorn Mountains, Geralt goes hunting for a dragon and ends up saving one. Funny how these things work out. 

The landscape of the places unnerves him. It’s said these mountains are a great place to be alone, but a horrible place to die alone. An accurate assessment, Geralt thinks. 

Everything might’ve gone better if he had been alone. 

But he wasn’t.

Instead, he falls back in the swirl of Yen’s arms. He hears Borch (the damned _golden dragon_ ) speak of his final first—fatherhood. Geralt tries not to think of what waits for him in Cintra. Can’t destiny leave him alone for a damn day?

Yennefer’s words ring inside his head. He bound Pavetta and Duny’s child to him and then left. But he can’t go back. He’s not ready for that yet. But when will he ever be?

He watches Yen and Borch leave. Jaskier stays by his side. “What a day,” the bard says as if Geralt hadn’t just had his heart splayed in two. “I imagine you’re probably—”

“Damn it, Jaskier,” he spits without thinking. He blames the bard for all of it. “If life would give me one blessing, it would be to take you—” he clenches his teeth—“off my hands.”

Jaskier’s face crumples. “Right, uh—right then. I’ll get the rest of the story from the others.” 

Geralt’s fuming still. He doesn’t turn. He didn’t expect Jaskier to walk away. When had he ever let himself get pushed away before? 

Maybe it’s for the best, Geralt thinks. Jaskier has no place in the messy picture of his life. He needs to stop dragging himself back in the thick of things. 

Maybe there are things Geralt needs to do that he can only do by himself. 

Maybe there are things he must greet with his head held high.

It’s time to stop running. 

* * *

In a cell in Cintra, Geralt dreams of the coast.

In Cintra, Geralt dreams of Jaskier. 

Jaskier knew him better than Geralt would like to admit. Back in the Cairgon Mountains, after he thought he’d lost Borch, Jaskier knew exactly what to say. He knew that Geralt was brooding on that rock but he didn’t really want to be alone, not then. Jaskier knew that Geralt needed to hear it wasn’t his fault that the man fell. Needed to have someone else confirm what Geralt already knew—he’d done his best. 

_We could head to the coast. Get away for a while._

The picture of the bard hasn’t faded from his mind, but he thinks it’s been coated in a heavy layer of fantasy. Jaskier in red. His hair lightly rippling in the wind. 

_We could head to the coast. Get away for a while._

Geralt dreams of a world where he said yes. Where they left it all behind and headed for the coast and never looked back, destiny be damned.

He dreams of a world where Jaskier never has to ask. Where he follows him without question and without hesitation. 

He dreams of another life, one where he followed Jaskier into the fray all those years ago. Another version of himself must be out there, somewhere. One who didn’t just sit back on the grass and watch Jaskier strip off his fine clothes and jump into the ocean. One who followed the bard’s sandy footprints and peeled off his own tight layers and pushed aside the waves so he could wrap his hands around Jaskier. 

_We could head to the coast. Get away for a while._

Geralt rests his head against the stone of the cells. His muscles ache from being stuck in the same position. He’d kill for a bath. There’s an unpleasant and damp cold that’s working its way into his bones. 

Yet somehow Geralt knows that this is exactly where he needs to be.

* * *

In Sodden, Geralt finds Ciri.

He wraps his hands around her and she doesn’t let go.

* * *

Outside of Mayena, Geralt camps with Ciri. They’ve been together only a few days and the girl is starting to open up more and more.

They’re coming this way to find Yennefer. Geralt figures their best bet is to reach Aretuza and go from there. Whatever messy relationship Geralt has with the mage, it doesn’t matter now. Ciri comes first. They need Yen’s help on both personal and political levels. They can’t let Nilfgaard creep forward any further. 

That night by the fire, Ciri stokes the flames with a stick she’s picked up and warms her hands. “Can I ask you something,” she says.

Geralt bites back his dry reply that she already had. “Of course,” he says instead.

“Who is Yennefer? To you, I mean.” 

He can’t seem to find the right words. A lover? No, not truly. Another woman bound to him by destiny? Somehow that doesn’t encompass their dynamic. A friend? An ally? “It’s complicated,” he says.

“But you care for her?”

“Yes.” 

“But not like _that_.”

“Hmm.” This child. “No, not like that.”

“Oh,” Ciri says. “Is there anyone you care for like that?”

Geralt pushes his feet nearer to the flames. He’s too tired to lie. “There might’ve been. Once.”

“What happened to her?”

“It didn’t work out.” Clearly. 

“This night is going to go very slowly if I have to press you for every detail.”

Geralt sighs. He closes his eyes. “I’m a Witcher, Ciri. I’ll live for a long time. It doesn’t end well when I have relationships with humans.”

“I’m sorry,” Ciri says. Her light eyes go watery. “I didn’t—I didn’t mean to press.”

 _Oh_. “He’s still alive—it’s alright.”

Ciri doesn’t miss a beat when Geralt says ‘he’, but her face does twist with confusion. “Then why aren’t you together?”

“Do you honestly think it could ever work?”

“What a terrible answer.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “You’re so obsessed with the idea that things might go badly that you’re not willing to even give it a _try_?”

Geralt feels a flush spread across his face. “No—no, it’s not like that.”

“Then what is it about?”

“I—you wouldn’t understand. You’re too young.”

Ciri’s eyes turn murderous. “I just lost my family and my home. I think you might want to take that back.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Geralt says, flustered. “It’s just…”

“Just what, Geralt?”

“I can’t lose him,” Geralt snaps. He runs his hand through his hair. He feels as if something in his heart finally gave way and let everything pour out in a mess he’ll never reign in again. “I can’t lose him.”

“Geralt,” Ciri says softly. She moves from the opposite side of the fire and sits next to him. She leans over and rests her head on his shoulder. “It sounds like you already have.” 

She’s right, he knows. 

“My family might be gone, but that doesn’t make what we had any less real.” She shifts slightly and hides the crack in her voice. “I think that the people we love stay with us. It doesn’t matter if they’re in our lives forever or only a little while. We carry them all the same.”

She’s right, he knows. 

Love isn’t limited by its temporality. It blossoms because of it. 

* * *

At the mouth of the Pontar river, where it meets the sea, Geralt and Ciri set up camp again. It’s a proper site, this time, with dozens of others pitching tents nearby. 

Aretuza was a bust. Unfortunate, but not unexpected. No one’s seen Yen since the battle of Sodden, but a nagging feeling in Geralt’s head tells him she’s still alive. It’s just a matter of knowing where to look.

Around them, the continent is uneasy. People flee to the North, terrified of the destruction that Nilfgaard brings. 

Geralt can’t say he blames them. He saw the ruin of Cintra first hand. The empire can’t creep any further up the land. More people cannot die for some self-righteous ruler’s cause. 

Geralt sighs as he thinks about it all. It’s too much to play out in his head. And right now, he needs to focus on watering Roach and cooking something for dinner. 

“I can get the water,” Ciri says. 

Geralt’s wary, but the site is busy enough and the river isn’t far. “Be careful,” he says and hands her the bucket. He watches her blonde hair swish away down the bank. When had he become so overprotective? Even letting the girl out of his sight for a few moments fills his gut with anxiety. 

He distracts himself by dragging his flint together and tries to get the fire to take. 

Before he can get the spark to catch, he sees Ciri come back up the hill. He squints. Why is she back already? She looks...off. Panicked. Beside her is some unfamiliar man with a gruff beard. 

“You’re Cirillia, aren’t you?” he hears the man ask.

Geralt’s grabbing his sword and running before he’s consciously aware of deciding to do so. There are people after Ciri, he knows. They aren’t going to do so much as lay a fucking finger on her. 

Geralt grabs the man’s arm and wrenches it back. He presses the sharp edge of his sword to the stranger’s throat. “I can’t let you leave here,” he says, “not with you knowing what you do.”

“Geralt,” the man says. He raises his free hand in surrender. “Geralt. _It’s me._ ”

Geralt drops his sword. _Jaskier._ How had he missed it before? The bard’s a little worse for wear—simple clothes, a short (and somewhat patchy) beard, and a healthy layer of dirt and grim. But it’s _him_. Soap and wildflowers. “Jaskier,” he says. “You’re alive.” He pulls the bard in close and doesn’t let go. 

Over Jaskier’s shoulder, Ciri gives him a knowing look. 

They talk over dinner that night. The usual pleasantries and introductions and small talk. He’s been playing at a court, up North, since the last time Geralt saw him. The lines around his eyes are a little deeper. A few greys spot his brown hair. 

After dinner, Ciri stretches and fakes a yawn. “Sorry,” she says. “I’d love to chat, but these last few weeks have taken so much out of me.”

“Of course,” Jaskier says, completely suckered in by her charm. “Catch some sleep, you poor girl.”

Geralt swears she smirks as she heads into her tent.

He tries to avoid the real conversation—the one he knows he has to have. He comments on Jaskier’s new beard. But he can’t stand dancing around the real subject.

“Look,” Geralt says. “I’m sorry for what I said. After the dragon. I was mad at everything. My life, my luck, Yennefer. And you, a little, but I had no right to blow up at you like I did. I didn’t mean what I said.”

“Uh, thanks. Geralt. I’m sorry too, for what it’s worth. I never meant to drag you into anything.” The bard avoids his eyes.

“I was never anywhere I didn’t want to be,” Geralt says. He leans in, closer to Jaskier, and gets the bard to look up. “So let me apologize.”

“Did Ciri put you up to this?”

“She helped me arrive at necessary conclusions.” They’re so close now. Geralt wants to grab Jaskier’s jaw and pull his face into his. 

“I’ve missed you,” Jaskier says. 

“I missed you too.” He sighs. “I never thought I’d say that. To anyone.”

Geralt feels the bard’s fingers—calloused and worn from the years spent working his lute—dust across the back of his hand. “Jaskier…”

“What Geralt? Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about this. That you haven’t wondered what would have happened if we hadn’t stopped after that night.” His nostrils flare.

“Of course I have,” Geralt says. The memory of the bard writhing underneath him still makes him twitch. “I couldn’t get it out of my mind if I wanted to.”

“Then why haven’t we been doing this for the past fifteen years?”

For someone who tries to observe everything he can, Jaskier truly misses what’s right under his nose. “I _hurt you._ Jaskier. I hurt you. When I saw your body in the morning… with the bruises on your hips and the bite marks on your back,” Geralt says, barely holding back his revulsion at himself “I was sick. That night I’d been a brute. I’d been…” He can’t say it out loud. _I’d been the monster everyone thinks I am._

“Geralt.” Jaskier says his name as if it’s an insult. “You did nothing that I didn’t want you to do.”

“I know we got caught up in the moment, but—“

“Geralt. I’m not some blushing maiden. I can handle myself, you understand?”

“Hmm.”

Jaskier leans back. He stares at Geralt and bites his lip.

Geralt runs his hand up Jaskier’s arm and drags his thumb over the line of Jaskier’s jaw. It feels different with the beard. “You’re certain?”

“Always,” Jaskier breathes. 

Geralt pulls Jaskier into a slow kiss. He wants to savour every moment of it, this time. Make it last as long as he can. Commit every part to memory.

“Tent,” Geralt instructs. 

They crawl inside and, without speaking, undress the other. Geralt pulls off the bard’s rough tunic and savours the scent. It’s everything he’s yearned for in the past months. 

The bard’s hands run over the old scar’s on Geralt’s chest before they run lower and meet his newest scar—the ghoul’s bite. 

“Long story.” He’ll tell him later. Or maybe tomorrow, or the day after that. He pulls the bard into a drawn-out kiss and Jaskier moans softly. 

“Shh,” he says and presses his finger against Jaskier’s lips. “We’ll wake half the campground.” Part of Geralt thinks that wouldn’t be so bad. 

But Jaskier nods in understanding and smirks and starts to turn away. 

Geralt reaches for him. He’s spent too long not saying what’s on his mind. “I want to look at you,” he whispers. “I want to see your face when I undo you.”

Jaskier pulls Geralt’s hair through his hands and kisses down his neck. Geralt pries himself away for the briefest of moments while he fumbles for oil from his bag and works Jaskier open with his fingers. He scissors slowly and Jaskier bucks at every movement. The bard’s head tilts back in pleasure. Geralt’s cock aches from the sight of it. 

When he pushes in and grinds his hips up, Jaskier lets out a strangled moan. 

Geralt gives into the waves of pleasure and lust. They move together naturally and desperately, with the comfort as if they’d been doing this for years and the longing as if they’d never touched each other. Geralt moves his hands, trying to learn all of Jaskier. His pleasure points. The curve of his hip bone and slope of his back. 

He wanted Jaskier. He wanted all of him. But want is a selfish thing—the people he loves aren’t his to keep. He can only give himself to them, fully and completely, and hope they accept his offering. 

“I’m yours,” Geralt whispers. A promise. An oath. “Always yours.”

Jaskier comes with a moan. The musk of his arousal fills the tent. Soap and sex and wildflower. Home. 

Geralt bucks again and, with a low groan, is spent. 

He pulls Jaskier against his body as they lay together afterward. Geralt runs his fingers through Jaskier’s hair and Jaskier presses his ass into Geralt’s groin. 

“You’re an idiot, you know,” Jaskier says and squeezes his hand. 

“I know.” He deserves it, really. “But remind me why, this time.”

“We could have been doing this for _years._ Back when I’d be ready for round two by now.”

“Hmm. Guess we’ll have to make up for the lost time in the morning.” 

“Yes, we will.” 

Geralt would like nothing more than to stay here forever. But he can’t quite shake the edge of worry from his mind. “I should check on Ciri, in the meantime.” He rolls off the bard’s warm body and pulls his breaches back on. “She gets afraid, sometimes. Since Cintra. And we’ll have to leave tomorrow.”

“Where were you planning on going?” 

“We need to find Yennefer. We need the mage’s help if we’re going to get through this.” He shoves his feet back into his boots. He hopes Ciri is alright in her tent. He can’t pretend as if anything that’s happening bodes well. But somehow, with Jaskier by his side, it doesn’t feel so heavy. 

“And you’ll come too, right?” Geralt asks. Jaskier had followed all this time. Still, he needs to hear it. 

“Of course, Geralt,” Jaskier promises, “you should know by now that I’ll always choose to follow you.”

Geralt smiles. “I wouldn’t want anyone else by my side,” he says. “I never have.”

They can make a life out of these moments. Geralt’s sure of it. 

He doesn’t know what morning will bring, nor what will come in the days ahead. But Jaskier’s here and he chose Geralt when he could’ve gone running for the coast. He doesn’t know how many days they’ll have together. Probably less than he’d like. But a thousand lifetimes with the bard wouldn’t be enough. He’ll never be ready for the bard to leave. All that Geralt can do is hold every piece of Jaskier in his heart.

It’ll stay there, he knows. 


	3. Art

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A HUGE thank you to Daryshkart for this absolutely brilliant artwork. I will admit I got a bit teary-eyed when I saw it. Please go check out her amazing art and show her some love!  
> https://daryshkart.tumblr.com/

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Of Lullaby's and Figurines](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22488973) by [SennexTheAssasinKingOfLight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SennexTheAssasinKingOfLight/pseuds/SennexTheAssasinKingOfLight)




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